


Chapter Three, Section Two, Subsection A

by Sophia_Bee



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: BAMF Emma, Cunnilingus, Emma is a badass, F/F, Femslash, First Time, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-22
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-08 14:38:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3212777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moira is assigned to be the handler for the CIA's newest asset, psychic Emma Frost, because her boss thinks Emma will work better with a woman. Emma agrees that she works better with women.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chapter Three, Section Two, Subsection A

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SapphireQueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireQueen/gifts).



> thank you so much to [lapetiteyoyo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lapetiteyoyo/profile) for the beta and [SapphireQueen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireQueen/profile) for the prompt. This is for you. Now...
> 
> FEMSLASH!

**I: The Assignment**

“I’m your handler,” Moira says, smoothing her palms down the beige slim pencil skirt she’d chosen that morning, the one that screams ‘proficient’. She offers her best professional smile and is met with a cold stare. The woman sitting in the chair in the cramped interview room watches her with cool appraisal, then her eyes go from Moira’s face to slowly run down her body in a move calculated to make Moira feel nervous, lingering just a little too long on the skin at the base of her throat. Those eyes return to her face and Moira is rewarded with a small, terse smile.

“Sugar,” Emma Frost, psychic, mutant terrorist, drawls, followed by a small huff of laughter, “you can’t handle me.”

Moira swallows and clears her throat. Jesus Christ. What the hell has she gotten herself into with this assignment?

“So,” Moira stutters, settling into the chair across the table from Emma, who is dressed in all black and picking at one of her fingernails. “You’re a mutant.”

“Mmmmm,” Emma says, not glancing up. Moira shifts uncomfortably in her seat and glances down at the tablet she’s clutching like it’s her life preserver. What in the world is she going to do with this woman who is either looking at her like she’s a tasty treat or entirely ignoring her? She thinks back to her training, the manual that made everything seem so easy.

_Chapter three, section two, subsection A: Establish a rapport with your contact._

Moira wants to laugh. Rapport? Are they supposed to bond over wardrobe secrets, because right now the only thing Moira really wants to know is how does Emma Frost keep that outfit on her body? She knows the reason the office gave her this assignment is because she’s a woman and they think that Frost will be more pliable working with someone of the same sex. Looking at her now, Moira is pretty sure the phrase she’s looking for is ‘fat chance’.

“And you’re a psychic?” Moira continues, wanting this conversation to be over and wishing she was just doing her usual stacks and stacks of report processing. Why had she asked for more responsibility? Why had she decided she should take on more?  
This is a shit show of a first assignment.

“Isn’t that what the file says?” Emma asks, still not looking at Moira. “Surely you have an extensive file on me.”

Arrogant. Fucking arrogant, Moira thinks to herself. Or is it self-confident? Emma Frost is not just a mutant. She’s a leader, a woman in a world full of men, and one who has risen to the top. Arrogance is probably part of it, but now that arrogance has become Moira’s problem.

“And you’re fully cooperating,” Moira says, moving on from any in-depth examination of Emma’s powers. Frost is right. It’s all in the file. The government has done an efficient job of spying over the years, and yes, the file on Emma is extensive.

“That’s part of the deal, right?” Emma says dismissively, as if this is not more important than whether or not she wants two or three shots in her latte that morning. Emma lets out a sigh. “I mean, blow up one little treasury building and they think they fucking own you for life.”

“Twenty people died,” Moira says, unable to ignore Emma’s words.

“Humans,” Emma says, her voice cold enough to bring down the temperature of the room a few degrees.

“People,” Moira says, and she feels the professionalism that she values so deeply slipping away, replaced by anger at Frost's apparent nonchalance at taking human lives. “People with families. With children.”

“And how many mutants have died?” Emma says and she finally looks at Moira, her eyes burning with anger, her indifference replaced by what Moira can only call righteous indignation. Moira opens her mouth to defend what her government has done, but staring at Emma, she finds that she can’t. She just can’t.

“More than twenty,” Moira says quietly, not shirking from the truth. She sees a flicker of something in Emma’s eyes, it might be a small moment of respect for the fact that Moira doesn’t try to defend what has been done to mutants; that she acknowledges without argument that the losses mutants have faced are much greater than twenty dead people in Wichita.

“More than twenty,” Emma repeats, going back to ignoring Moira and picking at a fingernail. "A much smaller price," she mutters almost to herself.

Rapport, Moira thinks to herself. Have to establish rapport. How the hell is she going to establish rapport with the ice queen sitting across from her? She clears her throat again.

“So, we should get to know each other,” Moira says, hoping her voice doesn’t quiver too much. Emma responds with a chuckle.

“What? You’re going to take me out for a romantic dinner, or something like that, sugar?"

Moira feels the heat of a blush creeping up her skin and she’s sure she’s turning an embarrassing shade of red as all semblance of professionalism slips away as she stammers her response.

“Ah, no. I mean...I can bring you takeout, or something, but that’s not quite...not quite what I meant.”

Emma looks Moira square in the face.

“It’s exactly what I meant.”

_Chapter three, section two, subsection B: do not get involved in a personal relationship with your contact._

Moira just stares at Emma, remembering how Emma’s gaze had slid up and down her body, and she’s pretty sure she’s crimson by now. She feels hot, her skin burning and she wishes she could reach up and undo just one or two buttons of her conservative white blouse, but all that would do is reveal the curve of her breasts to Emma, the reasonable amount of cleavage Moira is usually quite proud of, that is currently, um, heaving.

“Uh,” Moira manages to gasp. Emma responds by offering her a huge, snarky smile and she licks her lips. Moira swallows again. None of this is good.

“Take out will work,” Emma says coolly. Then she looks directly at Moira and smiles. A sly, knowing smile that makes Moira blush and she fucking licks her lips a second time, as if the first hadn’t been enough. "Too bad," Emma purrs.

**II: Coffee**

“Rapport, fucking build rapport.”

Moira is walking down the sidewalk and muttering to herself, her brow furrowed as she makes her way to the meeting spot. She’s holding two cups of coffee and she has regretted this about ten times since she left what she determined to be the nearest coffee shop in the vicinity of the address Emma had given her. It’s a seedy part of town, which isn’t surprising as a hideout for your standard mutant terrorist, and Moira had recently brushed up on her hand to hand combat skills in anticipation of this assignment, but she’s still glad to feel the weight of her glock tucked neatly in the holster under her smart suit jacket. The one that’s the same shade of beige that most of Moira’s wardrobe consists of.

Moira’s not quite sure how to build rapport with Emma. It seems every time Emma is in the same room with her, Emma somehow ends up in charge and Moira ends up flushed and bothered. She tells herself that anyone who dished up their sexuality on a platter in the manner that Emma Frost does would give her this reaction, but still....there’s something about Emma. Something that crawls under Moira’s skin and lodges itself there. Emma has been in Moira’s dreams since that day in the interrogation room, and Moira has woken up more than once feeling hot and bothered. She had slid her hand down between her thighs to find herself wet and it hadn't taken long for her to come. Moira feels the soft tingle of arousal at the memory of her fingers slipping back and forth across her clit, then pushes the feeling into the background.

_Keep it professional MacTaggert._

Moira isn’t entirely sure what to do with this situation. The manual doesn’t specify what to do when your CI is a sexy blond with nice tits and a penchant for naughty flirting. And Moira had been hand picked because they thought Frost would give them less trouble with a woman as her handler. Moira thinks this was a somewhat short-sighted decision made by a bunch of men thinking with their dicks. She also thinks she’s in a whole lotta trouble.

She should ask to be reassigned. It would be the smartest thing to do. Except Moira has fought for this opportunity. She’s put up with being one of the few women in her department, with off-color jokes, and the hushed tones that seem to accompany her wherever she goes. She’s put in hours and hours of report processing and watched colleagues who have been with the agency for half the time get assignments while she was stuck at her desk, all because they were men. Being reassigned may mean she waits another year for an opportunity, and how in the world would she explain her request?

I’m sorry sir. Emma Frost, well, she’s just too sexy. I mean I’m dreaming about her.

That would send her career into the toilet. Moira shivers a bit as the wind gusts. She’s one block away from the address.

The manual does suggest that one should not get involved with their CIs on a personal level. Maybe the manual would frown on the coffee Moira carries in thin papers cups, that’s burning her hands as she reaches the stoop of the apartment building. She rushes up the steps to the door and sets the cups down on a ledge, shaking her hands in the cool air, then she stares at the directory of apartments. The directory has names listed by the apartment numbers, some of them crossed out and written over, others smeared from water damage, and it’s clearly not tended to well. No surprise in this neighborhood. Moira finds 406, the number that she’d hastily scrawled on a scrap of paper when Emma had called to tell her where her latest crash pad was located. She pushes it, and the button feels stiff, so Moira pushes it a second time just in case the first time didn’t work. She steps back and waits for a moment, glancing upward at the building, as if Emma is going to pop her head out the window and wave cheerily. Just when Moira is about the push the button again, Emma’s voice crackles out of the speaker, and even through the static she sounds goddamn sexy.

“Yes?”

“It’s...it’s your friend,” Moira manages to stammer.

“Come on in, sugar,” Emma says and the door buzzes so loudly that Moira jumps. She grabs the door handle and pulls it open, jamming her foot between the door and the frame, then leans over in a somewhat awkward manner and grabs the coffee. Some of the liquid splashes over the rim and lands on the back of Moira’s hand, and Moira winces as it burns. She grits her teeth and sucks in her breath, then lurches through the doorway. Classy, McTaggart, Moira thinks to herself.

Emma lives in a walk-up so by the time Moira reaches the fourth floor she’s huffing a little and her hair has fallen into her face. She can’t reach up to brush it back because she’s still gripping that damn coffee, and she thinks coffee as an icebreaker or as a distraction was a bad idea. She finally arrives outside 406 and kicks at the door with the toe of her patent black leather pump, grimacing when she notices that she manages to scuff it in the process. Damn you, Emma Frost. Moria adds this to her ongoing mental list of grievances she has against Emma.

When Emma pulls open the door of her apartment she looks at Moira with that same cool appraisal she had during their previous meeting, then breaks into a genuine smile.

“Sugar, you’re a mess.”

Moira glares at Emma.

“A hot mess,” Emma elaborates then licks her lips.

Jesus fucking Christ, here they go again. Moira glares even harder. She shoves one of the cups of coffee at Emma, who looks surprised then takes it.

“Coffee,” Moira says irritably. Emma glances down at the cup.

“Just the way I like it,” Emma drawls, “but Agent MacTaggert, your hand.”

Moira doesn’t hear Emma’s concern. She’s stuck on the way Emma says ‘Agent MacTaggart’ and she suddenly realizes she’s staring.

“My hand?” Moira says blankly. Shit. Double shit. None of this is good.

“Let me take care of that, MacTaggart.”

She should turn around right now. She should demand to be taken off this assignment. She should quit her job and become a secretary, find a nice man to marry, devote herself to housekeeping, anything but follow Emma Frost into her apartment. Anything.

“Okay,” Moira says, realizing that her hand is throbbing. So much for turning around. Moira follows Emma into the apartment, kicking the door shut and scuffing her black pumps a second time.

**III: Seduction**

"This is a bad burn," Emma says, cradling Moira's hand in hers. She's so close Moira can feel heat radiating off her body, and she smells, well, good. Her scent is a combination of wicked and spicy and if Moira didn't feel half out of her head right now, if she were Building Rapport, as the manual recommends, versus trying to tamp down her arousal, she might venture to ask Emma the name of her perfume.

Emma turns her hand a bit and Moira sees the small flicker of a smile ghost across her lips.

"It's fine," Moira protests wanly, trying to pull her hand away. "I'll see the agency doc when I get back..."

"Sweetheart," Emma purrs, cutting Moira off, her fingers now moving to wrap around her wrist, as Emma's thumb starts to rub a small circle on the soft skin there. Moira tries to hide the small gasp this pulls out of her and she's almost successful. Emma has been looking down, staring at her pale fingers against Moira's equally pale skin. She glances up at the small sound Moira makes and her eyes are half-lidded and smokey. "I've been through a lot of fires and seen burns, and this one needs to be treated now. Lucky for you I carry a decent first aid kit."

Emma drops Moira's hand and Moira hears herself whimper. She fucking _whimpers_. Emma smiles that ghost of a smile again then turns and walks towards the bathroom of the shabby apartment. Moira stares after her for a long moment, then knowing better, follows her.

Moira perches on the toilet while Emma rummages through a bag she calls a first aid kit, full of various medical supplies, then turns to Moira with a white tube in one hand and a roll of gauze in the other. She pulls up a small stool, sits down and scoots forward, closer to Moira, and Moira has to let her legs fall apart so Emma can get close enough to tend to her hand. Emma takes Moira’s hand in hers again and carefully applies the salve to the burn then wraps it with gauze. When she’s done she glances up from her task and releases Moira’s hand, which drops to Moira’s side.

They should move. Emma should scoot back because she no longer has to be this close to Moira and Moira should just stand up, forcing Emma to give her some room. There are a lot of things that should be done, but neither of them move. They stay there, too close to each other, so close that Moira can hear Emma’s breath rasping a bit, and right when she’s about to move, to break the tension between them, she feels the touch of Emma’s fingers on the bare skin of her inner thigh.

Oh.

Emma’s fingers are warm and light on the inside of her thigh, resting briefly just inches above her knee, then they slowly start to skim upwards, and Moira starts to squirm and she clears her throat. Emma’s fingers still. Emma glances up at Moira through long lashes and Moira is panting, but she does manage to find her voice and squeak out:

“I’m not that kind of girl.”

Emma chuckles. She outright chuckles and she does not remove her fingers, although they also don’t continue their upward trajectory. She opens her mouth, licks her lips and says, “Oh honey. You forget. I’m a telepath. You are that kind of girl.”

Shit.

Moira remembers touching herself and how she’d imagined the swell of Emma’s breasts and how they might feel under her hands, and she bites her bottom lip as she stares down at Emma, who continues to watch her carefully. Waiting.

Moira shivers and nods almost imperceptibly, which is as good as saying ‘yes’. Emma smiles and her fingers start to move again, making their way under Moira’s sensible skirt, up to the junction of her thigh and hip, then her whole hand goes to cup Moira’s groin, her palm pressing up to put pressure on Moira’s cunt, and Moira lets out a groan and pushes back, seeking more of that pressure. Emma huffs out a little laugh as she watches Moira’s face. It feels so good and Moira’s eyes start to roll back into her head and she grinds down against Emma’s palm again.

“You’re awfully wet for not being that kind of girl,” Emma teases, pressing harder and Moira answers by grinding her hips into Emma’s hand a third time.

“Please,” Moira whispers, feeling desperate for something she can’t even name. Now Emma outright laughs.

“I would go down on you right here, sugar,” Emma says as she smiles. “But there are more comfortable places, and it’s uh, the bathroom.”

“Down on me?” Moira gasps, confused.

“Oh,” Emma says with a grin, “I thought...I mean, even without my telepathy, you scream dyke sweetheart. I just assumed.”

“No,” Moira squeaks and grinds down on Emma’s hand again. Emma slips a finger inside Moira’s beige cotton panties and strokes her pubic hair slowly, her finger skirting closer to Moira's labia and Moira shudders. She wants more of that touch.

“Well,” Emma says, still smiling, “welcome to the first day of the rest of your life.”

“Cheeky,” Moira gasps, her hips undulating, seeking, wanting.

“Always,” Emma says and she pulls her hand away, leaving Moira slack mouthed and protesting. “Bedroom.”

“Bedroom,” Moira echoes weakly.

The bedroom is remarkably unspectacular, and the bed looks far from comfortable, but before Moira can even get to it, Emma stops her with a hand on her arm then pulls her back against her, grinding her hips into Moira’s ass with a moan, while a free hand comes around and reaches up under her skirt again, pushing it up her thighs to bunch around her hips. This time Emma’s hand doesn’t press up against her but slips inside Moira’s panties, angling downward until her fingers slip between Moira’s labia and slide across her slick engorged cunt, making her moan and lean back hard against Emma, who takes her other hand and wraps it around her waist, holding her steady.

“Wet,” Emma murmurs. Her fingers stroke upwards and then she finds that spot, the one that makes Moira moan even louder and buck against Emma’s hand wanting more.

“Please,” Moira says. “Touch me.”

“Not yet, sugar,” Emma whispers in her ear, her voice raspy with desire, “I said I wanted to go down on you, and I’m going to do just that. I want to taste you.”

Jesus Christ. Moira has no words left. She just tips her head back and rests it on Emma’s shoulder and lets the sensations sparking through her body take over. Moira turns her head, seeking Emma’s lips, her neck bent at an uncomfortable angle, but she doesn’t care, because when Emma’s mouth finds hers, and her tongue licks between Moira’s lips, coaxing them open, then it thrusts into her mouth, Moira loses all semblance of rational thought. Then Emma stops kissing her and Moira lunges after her, wanting more, but Emma refuses, shaking her head.

Emma pulls her hand out of Moira’s panties and releases her from her embrace and Moira crawls onto the bed. Although she’s never fucked a woman before, she knows what comes next and she knows what to do. She climbs to the top of her bed, her skirt still pushed up around her hips, and rolls onto her back, then she looks at Emma, who has climbed on the bed and is kneeling at the foot, looking at her with a smirk on her face. Moira reaches down and tugs those sensible underwear down her legs, kicking them off, then lets her knees fall apart, leaving her wet, swollen cunt exposed. Then she goes to her sensible blouse and undoes the buttons one by one, flicking them open with her short, sensible nails. She finds the clasp on her bra and undoes it, then peels it back, her nipples getting even harder when the cool air hits then. Moira takes one hand and grasps one of those hard nipples between her fingers and starts to roll it, pinching and squeezing, and it feels so good that her eyes start to lose focus and she wants to let them close, to enjoy those sensations, but instead she looks at Emma.

“Fuck me,” Moira says.

“You are much naughtier than you appear, Agent MacTaggert,” Emma answers, her voice husky. She crawls up the bed and settles between Moira’s thighs, pushing them even further apart. Emma’s hand comes up and her fingers pull Moira’s labia apart, then Emma dips her head and licks a long stripe up Moira’s cunt, starting at the bottom and ending at the top, at Moira’s clit. Emma sucks on her clit, causing Moira to buck up, then she takes her tongue and licks, alternating a broad swipe with a more focused swipe, followed by another suck, then repeats.

Moira does close her eyes now, tipping her head back, and as Emma’s mouth works her clit she arches upwards, upwards towards that tongue. Her hands clutch at the scratchy polyester comforter, gripping at it, and Moira is panting and moaning and making all kinds of obscene noises.

“Fuck, oh fuck, _oh fuck_ ,” Moira spits out, and she must be such a sight, one hand squeezing her nipple, her blouse open and almost falling off, her skirt up around her waist and Emma Frost between her legs, one hand holding her open as Emma goes down on her, the other pressing down on Moira’s thigh, keeping her from flying off the bed. Moira bites her lips and moans again.

Emma’s tongue is relentless, and it’s clear this isn’t _her_ first time. She does not stop, and Moira feels the sensations build up in her groin, pooling in her belly, a far off tingling that grows and grows, and at some point she can feel the inevitability of her orgasm, and she knows she’s close to coming. She lets out a grunt then a low, long guttural hum, and she rocks up towards Emma’s mouth, her hands flying up behind her to claw at a non-existent headboard, her hips jerking, her abdomen tense, and then she shouts and comes hard.

Moira is gasping and crying and she’s reaching down, trying to drag Emma up to her. Emma slides up her body, one hand going to press her palm on Moira’s crotch as she continues to jerk from the aftermath of her orgasm and the pressure offers some relief from the almost unbearable sensations. Emma hovers above Moira, supporting her weight with one arm and Moira sees that her mouth is slick with her own secretions. Emma dips her head and kisses Moira, tasting a bit bitter and smelling musky like sex. Moira kisses her back, tasting herself on Emma's mouth.

“Lovely,” Emma says

Shit, Moira thinks. What the fuck has she gotten herself into? She was worried that bringing coffee was crossing a line and now she’s lying mostly naked and entirely debauched under her CI.

_Chapter three, section two, subsection A: Establish a rapport with your contact_

She’s pretty sure all of this is not what the manual meant.

Moira should leap up and run out of the room but she's entirely boneless and languid. Emma feels so good pressed against her, she just cannot move.

“Sugar,” Emma says, pulling back from Moira and shifting her weight so she’s no longer on top of her but lying next to her, looking over at her, her eyes wide with lust, and Moira sees her tongue lick along her bottom lip.

“My turn now, MacTaggert. Let me show you what I like,” Emma murmurs. Moira nods.

"Yes," Moira rasps. Emma smiles. She leans over to place a soft kiss on Moira's lips.

"Agent MacTaggart," Emma purrs, "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Rapport established.

**~fin~**


End file.
